


Capitulation

by frenchifries



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cute, F/F, Haircuts, Humanstuck, Internalized Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchifries/pseuds/frenchifries
Summary: Rose is stuck co-hosting another one of her mother's get-togethers. Playing the perfect daughter has never really been her thing, though – and when Rose spots a cute photographer, she gets some ideas as to how she can make things more interesting.ft. ridiculous lesbian flirting, hookups interrupted by emotional breakdowns, and haircuts as affirmation of identity.





	Capitulation

Another Saturday evening, another ostentatious soiree filling the house with your mother’s “friends.” Much as you wish to retreat to the quiet isolation of your room, you are under strict orders to be a good little co-hostess and keep guests entertained as they down fancy little drinks and expensive catered hors d’oeuvres.

You play the part graciously for the first hour or so, smiling along as virtual strangers coo over how _tall_ you’ve grown, _surely_ you’re in college now, have you decided what to study yet, will you follow in your mother’s _illustrious_ footsteps, or do you plan to eschew the sciences altogether, Dr. Lalonde is _always_ going on about how _strong-willed_ her daughter is, and so _talented_ in language arts, too, perhaps we have a future bestselling author on our hands!

As the evening winds on and your mother becomes more and more scarce – hopefully not _too_ plastered just yet – you grow weary under the gaze of all these damn _people_. At the first opportunity, you scurry off to a corner cast in shadow by one of those absurd wizard statues, and take to watching the action from afar. Half the guests seem rather tipsy by now, in danger of spilling wine on their immaculate gowns and suits as they laugh haughtily, and you suddenly want nothing more than to make a fiasco of this whole stupid party.

You’re in the midst of plotting when you notice a younger woman, about your age, weaving unnoticed through the crowd. Heavy DSLR in hand, hair feathery short and jet black but for a green streak down the side, and it isn’t until you take in her outfit – a simple white blouse and crisp black slacks – that you realize she must be with the catering crew. No one acknowledges her presence as she squeezes past them to photograph the food. Have you really become so absorbed in this upper-crust life that such people are invisible to you, too?

She works with practiced ease, it seems, crouching to snap one table, spinning on her heels to capture the next. A few pics of drinks in hands and croquettes on lips. At several points, she tilts the camera up to get shots of the parlor itself – orange dusk light streaming in through tall windows, glinting off the banister. Her face twists in amused distaste as she photographs the bearded stone men flanking the room.

And then the lens is pointed straight at you, and you barely have time to register her presence before the shutter clicks. Only a few feet away, she lowers the camera and smirks.

“You know,” you say once you find your words, “most would consider it quite rude to photograph someone without their permission.”

“You’ll have to forgive me.” She tucks that green streak behind her ear and purses dark painted lips. “One could mistake you for the… eccentric décor around here.”

“If that’s meant to be a dig at my appearance, I will have you know the outfit was my mother’s idea.” You frown down at your plum cocktail dress, suddenly more aware of how the lace sleeves itch; you haven’t quite yet had the heart to tell her you prefer pants these days.

“Quite the opposite,” the young woman says, letting the camera hang around her neck. “Kanaya Maryam,” she offers with an outstretched hand. You shake it; her fingertips are calloused.

“Rose,” you reply, following up with a belated “Lalonde, that is. Obviously. Or not. I shouldn’t assume our relation is obvious, nor that you’d even be familiar with my mother’s work. Not that you wouldn’t be! Or, that is to say – ” Shit, you’ve hardly met the girl and you’re already tripping over your words.

Kanaya laughs and leans against a table. For some reason the prominence of her triceps takes you by surprise; you abruptly wish you had a glass behind which to hide your face.

“I am… reasonably aware of Dr. Lalonde.” Her eyes pass over your head and out the window. You follow her gaze and assume the ensuing silence means she has taken interest in the trees. “It is an impressive estate,” Kanaya says softly, and you are once again self-conscious.

“Are you interested in architecture?” you venture, remembering how she contorted herself to get those low angles of the stairs.

“A bit,” she shrugs, an odd smile on her dark lips. “Aesthetics in general, I suppose. I’m actually studying fashion at the moment.” Her eyes flick back to you – more specifically, your body. Outfit! Your outfit, rather. Is certainly what Kanaya is observing. Because of her interest in fashion. Of course. “You?”

“Me?” you parrot stupidly.

She tilts her head. “Are you in school?”

“Oh… right. Yes. I am.” You fold one arm over your chest, the other bent so you can rest your chin on your hand. “But if I’m being entirely honest, I’ve answered so many questions about myself, studies included, tonight. I’d much rather talk about someone else, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh?” Kanaya bites her lip, hair brushing against one shoulder. The top few buttons of her shirt are undone, enough to expose a defined clavicle.

_Okay, Rose, stop being such a massive fucking dyke for a few minutes._

“I admit I’m not sure what to say… Nobody’s really asked before.”

“I’m asking.” You avert your gaze back toward the windows. “If you’d like to share, I mean. You don’t have to.”

She laughs again, a deep and unabashed sound. You try not to focus on the glint of her teeth you catch from the corner of your vision.

“No, no, it’s alright. Hmm.” She shifts her weight. “I suppose I just like pretty things,” she says with a shrug. “Making things look the best they can. Shaping something beautiful from nothing.”

A flat laugh rises unbidden from your throat.

“Hah. And here I am contemplating how I can most heinously tear all this down.” You gesture at the tall windows and vaulted ceilings with your chin.

“We all respond to our surroundings differently,” she tells the trees.

“But,” you murmur thoughtfully. “But. Knowing how you feel about my home… it would be a shame not to make the most of it.” You clear your throat, turning your gaze back to Kanaya. “I can show you around, if you’d like. If – if you have enough pictures, that is. I’d hate to drag you away from your work.”

She matches your conspiratorial smirk and sets the camera securely on the table. “I do believe I’d like to take you up on that offer, Miss Lalonde.”

“In that case.” You offer your hand, which she takes gingerly. “Let us ditch these extravagant assholes.”

***

You feel like a mischievous child, ducking past plush sofas and oversized bookshelves as Kanaya trails behind you, twisting this way and that to make sense of the work of architectural absurdism you call home.

“There are at least three studies on the first floor alone,” you explain as you lead her down a winding back hallway.

“You say that as if unsure of the real number.”

“There is also the cat painting room, which sometimes doubles as an extra study if my mother is so inclined.”

“As in, a room in which one paints cats?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; it’s just a room full of paintings _of_ cats.”

“Ah, of course. That is much more normal.”

“Here.” You stop outside a door flanked by twin marble pedestals. “This was one of my favorites when I was younger. I liked to sit at the big desk and pretend to be a famous writer.”

The study has remained unchanged as long as you can remember – bookcase-lined walls and a massive mahogany desk crushing four identical imprints into a thick Persian rug.

Kanaya kneels to stroke the carpeting. “We had one like this when I was little.” You can just make out the most genuine smile you’ve seen on her face all evening. If you had a heart, you might say it was flipping.

While Kanaya stands, you notice a mostly-empty glass on the desk. No coaster.

“My mother must have left this here. She’s always traipsing from room to room with some drink or another.” You roll your eyes and sniff the contents of the glass – merlot. Could be worse. Hell, maybe it’s worth a sip.

You catch Kanaya eyeing you with something like amusement as you tip back the glass and almost choke. She covers her mouth with a hand, but not quickly enough to hide the way her lips curl away from her teeth.

“Care to finish it off?” You extend the glass toward her, swirling the remaining wine into a deep purple vortex.

“Ah, I don’t drink, actually.”

Fuck.

“Of course!” Your hand lurches to pull the drink back at the simple rejection, liquid sloshing over the edge in your haste.

Over the edge, and… onto the front of Kanaya’s pristine white shirt. Lovely.

“Oh no, let me – ” You set the glass down and hurriedly grab two handfuls of tissues with which to dab at the stain seeping over her left breast pocket. Her hands curl over yours to take the tissues for herself, and then.

And then you both freeze.

“Um,” Kanaya laughs awkwardly. “It’s alright. It’s the company uniform; food and drink stains are to be expected.”

“Right.” Her hands are still holding yours against her chest. That wine must have been sitting out for quite some time to make your head spin like this after just one sip.

She looks down at you, and you’re struck with the realization of just how _tall_ she is. How did you not notice before? You’d have to press up onto your toes just to reach her lips and –

Wow. Okay, you maybe had some _thoughts_ about how big the desk in here is, but… it all seems like too much right now. You retract your hands and heft yourself up onto the desk, feet dangling over the edge.

“You’re too good for this,” you mutter. Kanaya cocks her head before coming to sit beside you.

“I don’t believe I understand.”

Your lips twist. “To be some… some _conquest_ of a rebellious rich girl acting out to spite her mommy.”

She kicks her legs. “Is that what this was going to be?”

You feel your face reddening. “No! I… that’s not.” You shake your head. “That’s not what I wanted. I don’t think. But that’s…” A sigh turns into a dark laugh. “Fuck, Kanaya, I’d give you all the Persian rugs in this damn house!”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Instead, she’s looking at you quite solemnly.

“I was having fun. I find you quite…” She looks at her lap. “…intriguing.” The smile turns a bit more real, scrunching up her nose (nearly big enough to rival your own, you think).

“I’m boring,” you confess. “This isn’t even how I want to… You said something about loving beautiful things. If you find me pretty in this state, I’m afraid I will have to disappoint.” You tug at the hem of your dress. “I’d rather be wearing a flannel and jeans right now. And this eyeliner makes me want to gouge my eyes out. And I’ve been meaning to chop my hair off for ages. I just haven’t been able to… I keep hearing… My mother likes my hair like this and – and how _stupid_ is it that I give a shit!”

“That’s not stupid,” she says, laying a hand over yours.

“I’m not intriguing, or beautiful, or… anything worth your time.”

Wordlessly, Kanaya stands. You shut your eyes and prepare for the sound of the door opening and closing behind her. Instead, you hear the slide of wooden drawers, followed by a sharp sound like metal on metal.

“Hey.” Her voice comes from in front of you. Hesitantly, you open your eyes to the sight of gleaming scissors in her hand.

“Oh god,” you say with a slightly hysterical laugh. “You’re going to murder me, huh?”

“Close,” she says, scooting onto the desk behind you. “Hold still.”

“The carpet – ”

“I’m sure you have a fancy vacuum cleaner somewhere in this mansion.”

And then she starts snipping.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” You struggle not to let laughter shake you too much.

“I can’t believe how silly you are.” Gentle fingers tip your head from side to side as she cuts. Small hanks of hair fall past your shoulders and onto the floor.

“How so?”

“All this talk about not being beautiful.”

“I don’t – ”

“I would like you if you were handsome, too.”

Your heart actually stops a little. You know, that heart that you definitely don’t have. Fuck. You might cry. What is wrong with you?

“Shall I leave it a little longer in the front?”

“You… what?”

“Your hair has a lovely natural wave. If I leave it a bit longer up top here, it’ll create a rather enticing flip.”

Oh. Yeah, you’re crying a little. You give a slight nod.

“For your eyes.” She shoves some tissues into your hand. Are you that obvious? “You said you didn’t like the eyeliner.” Ah. Right. Thankfully the tears make scrubbing it off a little easier.

“Well,” Kanaya says at length. “It’s not as tidy as it would be if I had the proper tools, but…” She hands you her phone with the front-facing camera pulled up.

Oh. _Oh._ It’s perfect, choppy and messy in all the right places – and she was right about leaving the front a bit longer. Your hair swooshes asymmetrically over your eyebrows, a twisted kiss of femininity. Of course, the sideburns and neckline will need some further refining with more precise implements, but given that she only had a pair of old office scissors to work with…

You twist to face her. “Is there anything you _aren’t_ amazing at?”

“Hmm…” She purses her lips and taps her chin thoughtfully with the scissor handle. “Bowling.”

Your face splits into a grin and before you can stop yourself, you’ve pulled her into a tight embrace.

“I love – ” _Ahem._ “I love it. Thank you.” Nice save. It’s only because you’re going through some Psychologically Significant Changes right now, of course.

Kanaya pulls back to take a good look at you. A lopsided grin is plastered on her face as well.

“You’re very welcome. Not to toot my own horn as they say, but… you do indeed look quite handsome like this.”

It’s too much, she’s too much. You press your face into your hands, but you can’t stop smiling.

“I’m sorry, I’m such a mess,” you mumble into your palms. “I feel like an asshole.”

“Rose.” She says it soft and quiet, hands caressing the sides of your face. Those calloused fingers easing yours out of the way, tipping your head up toward hers. Her eyes are interminably dark, her nose crinkled with a gentle smile. “I don’t think you’re an asshole.” She kisses your knuckles and you bark a surprised laugh at what you’re quite sure is the first time you’ve heard her swear.

“Quite the pickup line. I’m sure you have girls falling all over themselves with charms like those.”

“And you? Do you have an emotional breakdown in front of every girl you like?”

Unthinking, you lean your face closer to hers. “Who said I liked you?”

“In some cultures, the offer of a Persian rug is considered a marriage proposal.” It may be your imagination, but you’re pretty sure Kanaya is also closing the distance. Her breath is warm on your face.

“Or perhaps payment for services rendered.” You blow a few stray strands out of your face.

“Mm, I don’t think so.” Within moments, her lips are a millimeter from yours and your pulse is pounding in your ears. Tentatively, you drag your teeth across her bottom lip. God, she’s gorgeous, you can hardly believe you’re actually allowed to kiss her.

You don’t have much time to think such thoughts, as she’s pressing her mouth to yours. Just as your arms buckle, she catches you by the waist and eases you back onto the desk. Her chest brushes yours teasingly, tongue slipping between your lips as they part around a moan. Your hands skim over her broad shoulders, muscular arms, down her back and settle on the curve of her hips. Her thighs bracket yours and it is with some reluctance that you part.

“I told you I pretended to be a writer in here,” you say breathlessly, hands teasing at the buttons of her shirt. “I didn’t tell you I used to write stories about…” You undo the first button. “These sorts of things. At this very desk. Always terrified my mother would come in and catch me – as if she’d even care! She’d probably put my stories on the fridge if she – _ah!_ ”

Kanaya presses a kiss to your throat, teeth dragging just enough to startle you out of your train of thought.

“You talk far too much about that woman. It seems her specter haunts every aspect of your life, hm?”

“Ah, psychoanalysis is _my_ thing, dear. But I’ll forgive it; after all, we’ve only known each other for an evening.”

“Is this too fast?” Kanaya murmurs, even as her hands press brazenly at your chest.

“You tell me,” you say softly into her hair. “Can’t say I’ve done anything like this before. Then again, I can’t say I’ve ever spilled my guts to a pretty girl, then been validated via haircut by said pretty girl before.”

She cards a hand through your hair, mussing it to her liking. “Really? Typical Saturday night for me.”

You pout. “Oh, don’t tell me I’m just another notch in your belt.”

“I don’t believe in belts; I believe in wearing properly-fitted pants. But also.” She kisses your pursed lips and bops your nose with her index finger. “No. You’re the first.”

Then her lips are at your neck once more, hands wedged under your back to undo your zipper. You allow yourself a pleased sigh before bolting upright, nearly headbutting Kanaya in the process.

“Wait, first-first?”

“Oh…” She flushes – more so than she already was, that is. “I, um. Technically, overall, that is, I mean, if you are specifically referring to, um.”

“Oh my god are you a virgin?”

Kanaya’s hands fly to cover her face. “That, um. Depends how you define it. And is that not a reductive categorization that ignores the multitudes of human sexual experience outside a heteronormative – ”

“Kanaya.” You grab her hands. “I’m not going to let your first time occur in a musty office while a bunch of rich strangers get wasted several rooms over.” You give her a full, deep kiss. She blinks at you with wet eyes. “Could I, maybe… take you on a date, first? Please?”

A nervous laugh shudders out of her. She nods, that ridiculous smile back on her lips.

“I think that would be lovely. When did you have in mind?”

“Hmm.” You kiss her hand. “How about… right now?”

“Right now?”

“After _you_ toss that camera someone else’s way and take one of my blouses.” You trace a finger over the wine stain. “And after _I_ wash off these lipstick marks and change.”

“Wear your most handsome flannel and jeans,” Kanaya says with a mock-stern look. Ugh, there goes your heart doing acrobatic stunts in your chest cavity again.

You press your forehead against hers. Your cheeks hurt from the nonstop grinning.

“Of course. I will.”


End file.
